Hotter Than Wildfire (28 page)

Gerald Montez, holding a limp Ellen, an unconscious Ellen, but please, God, not a dead Ellen. A Glock 19 pressed against her head so hard a trickle of blood fell down her temple, down her cheek, dripped off her chin.

If she was bleeding, she was alive.

He knew who Montez was, but Montez didn’t know who he was.

“You!” Montez screamed. “Whoever the fuck you are! Weapon down! Hands out to your sides and back away or I blow her head off!”

He had no choice. The heavy Desert Eagle bounced on the wing and slid off, the clatter as it hit the tarmac loud in the silence. He had two other backup weapons, but he couldn’t go for either one as long as Montez was holding that gun to Ellen’s head.

Montez was having trouble holding Ellen, who was so limp her feet rested awkwardly on the cabin floor, not holding her up. His left arm was doing that. He took one step forward and her legs bumped and dragged behind her.

Montez was strong, but holding the entire weight of an adult woman with one arm was straining him. Sweat dripped off his face.

Or maybe it was fear, because he didn’t have too many options here, other than blowing Ellen’s head off.

He knew that Harry had backup. The van with a driver was visible off the trailing edge of the wing. Mike was nowhere to be seen, but he was there. Oh yeah, he was there.

Montez screamed down to Sam. “And you! Driver! Get your fucking hands off the wheel!”

Through the windscreen, Sam lifted his hands off the wheel.

Montez turned to Harry. “Back away!”

Harry backed away, glad to give Mike a clear shot, but how could Mike take it? Oh God, Montez’s gun was screwed tightly against Ellen’s temple and his finger was white on the trigger. Mike couldn’t even try the old trick of blowing his forearm off at the elbow, because it was tight in against his stomach.

Blowing a round into Montez’s cerebral cortex, putting the bullet right at midpoint between the eyes, on the bridge of the nose, would be child’s play for Mike. Hell, it would be child’s play for Harry, if Harry’s Desert Eagle—with almost too much stopping power for this distance—wasn’t down there on the tarmac.

The thing was, if Mike caught him between the eyes, Montez would be blown backward, and even if he were already dead, the sheer physics of the situation would guarantee that his dead trigger finger would be pulled back, too, and Ellen’s brains would spatter the elegant interior of the fancy jet.

Don’t even think of that.
He couldn’t. It would make him weak.

He knew, like he knew that the sun would rise tomorrow in the east, that all he needed, all he and Mike and Sam needed, was the tiniest window of opportunity, the merest flicker of a chink, and Montez was history. It would come down to a fraction of a second and he had to be ready, because his whole life had come down to this exact moment.

He stood on the balls of his feet, muscles ready but not tense, mind empty of everything but the permutations of geometry necessary to wipe Gerald Montez off the face of the earth.

All he needed was a second. A microsecond. Just a tiny little something.

And then—a miracle occurred.

He hadn’t even been watching Ellen because it hurt to see her and because every fiber of his being was caught up in Montez, in looking for the faintest hint of movement that would signal an opportunity.

Without moving a muscle, remaining a deadweight hanging from Montez’s arm, Ellen opened her eyes. Her gorgeous sea-green eyes, alive and completely aware. Montez couldn’t see her, but by God, Harry did. And Mike and Sam could see her, too.

The clock was up and running.

She was white-faced and terrified, with a gun pressed heavily against the skin of her temple by a maniac, but she attempted a smile, a slight movement of her lips.

And then she winked.

And Harry knew.

Everything that happened next happened in a second of blinding motion that somehow felt as if it were slow motion.

Ellen kicked Montez in the knee and threw herself forward, out onto the wing. There was no doubt that Montez would have aimed at her head and pulled the trigger, except that as Ellen was moving, in the fraction of a second in which her head cleared the muzzle, Montez’s head blew apart, and Harry was leaping to catch Ellen, ripping a flashbang off his utility belt and tossing it into the cabin, grabbing Ellen, twisting in midair so she’d fall on him, pulling her head into his shoulders, because even at a distance the effects of a flashbang were devastating and highly painful. It went off inside the cabin and the windows glowed brightly with the flash, the 170-decibel grenade echoing loudly over the airfield.

Whoever was inside was going to be completely disoriented and would stay that way for long minutes.

Sam and Mike, cradling his rifle—which Harry wanted to kiss because it was directly responsible for his holding a live Ellen in his arms again—climbed up onto the wing from the roof of the SUV and dipped to enter the cabin, weapons out.

A few seconds later, another shot rang out, a pistol this time. Mike appeared immediately in the doorway. “Van der Boeke,” he said, and held up two fingers. Pilot and copilot. “Sam’s taking care of them.”

Van der Boeke was an experienced soldier and had recovered fast from the flashbang. But no one got the drop on Mike. Van der Boeke was history.

Harry ducked his head down, chin hairs catching in the flying strands of red-brown hair flowing over his chest. Ellen was trembling so hard he was afraid she’d hurt herself, and he tightened his arms around her.

“It’s okay,” he whispered to the top of her head. “It’s okay, it’s all over. You’re safe. We’re all safe.”

His hand was on her back and he could feel her heart fluttering with the residue of terror. She shuddered once, violently, and gasped for air.

Four big, black vans came racing up, braking hard. “Go go go!” male voices chanted, and men spilled out of the backs of the vans. Armed men in full gear, four turning with their backs to them, setting up a security perimeter, the others down on one knee, rifles shouldered.

Ellen started shuddering again. “Who’s that?” her voice was panicked and he rubbed her shoulder.

“The cavalry, darling. It’s fine.” He kissed her cheek, shifting her slightly so he could lift himself up on one elbow. “Aaron!” Harry yelled.

“Yo!”

“Up here! You’re late to the party, but glad you could make it anyway. We’ve got two bad guys down. Two pilots, still breathing, probably bad guys, too. You sort it out.”

“Harry?” Ellen raised her head, looking him in the eyes, dashing away a tear. “Is that the FBI?”

“Otherwise known as the cavalry, yeah.”

“Gerald is dead?”

The words were music to his ears. “Oh yeah.”

“There’s another guy with him, tall, blond—”

“We know all about him, honey, and he is dead.”

She just looked at him, wide eyes studying his. She needed to see the truth of that in him and he let her.

“So…it’s over.”

He laughed, for the first time in what felt like forever. “It’s over.”

She threw her arm around his neck, hugging him, and a small half laugh that sounded just a little hysterical came from deep in her throat. “Oh God, Harry, it’s over.” She pulled back to look him in the eyes again.

“Let’s go home,” she whispered.

“Oh yeah,” he grinned.

San Diego
Christmas Eve

  It was a small jazz club, the kind Ellen—or Eve—preferred. She didn’t like stadiums or big concert halls; they weren’t right for her voice. It was a Christmas concert she’d been practicing for since October. All Christmas carols, all in subtle jazz renderings that made them sound brand new.

Since the club was small, tickets were at a premium. Ellen made everyone pay through the nose and donated half the proceeds to a women’s shelter in San Diego, one few people knew about, one that worked.

Five minutes after tickets were available online, the club was sold out. There were fans hanging from the rafters.

Harry sat with Mike and Sam and Nicole and Meredith, who was on her best behavior. They’d gotten filthy looks when they settled at a table with a six-month-old baby. There were groans and comments from surrounding tables, which only died down a little when they saw how damned cute she was.

Merry was unfazed. She was a lady and a concert pro and better behaved than the drunk, fat guy to Harry’s left. The instant she heard Aunt Ellen’s voice, she stilled and listened. It was amazing.

But then Ellen had sung lullabies to her since she was born.

Harry thought that was amazing—to grow up with Ellen’s voice in your head.

He still thought the whole thing was amazing—that this woman was his wife. That he got to live with her and listen to her sing anytime he wanted. And Christ, she even kept his
books
! No one was as happy as he was. Well, except for Sam, who was loony over Nicole and even loonier over Merry.

Ellen finished a long, slow, heartbreaking rendering of “Ave Maria” and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. There was a little hush. Even Merry, sitting on Daddy’s lap, huge blue eyes fixed on her aunt, was quiet.

Then the house exploded and Merry laughed.

Ellen was Eve tonight. It was incredible how she could be these two entirely different people. Ellen was his beautiful wife, with the shiny hair tumbling over her shoulders, dressed casually in a white shirt and jeans, no makeup, who most evenings greeted him when he came home with a smile and a kiss and a new burnt dish, making his heart leap and his stomach groan.

Out of pity, Manuela, Sam and Nicole’s housekeeper, sent down food a couple of times a week. Enough to feed an army of stevedores.

That woman was relaxed and happy and loving and man, he loved her back.

But Eve—oh God,
Eve
—she was this remote and mysterious beauty conjured up out of moonlight and stardust. As smooth as marble, elusive as a dream.

Just look at her,
Harry thought. She was slender, even small, but she dominated the stage. One spotlight, the musicians behind her in shadow, standing before a microphone, holding the public completely in the palm of her hand.

Her voice filled the room, filled every single empty space. It would be impossible to think of anything but her, have anything but her in your head.

Harry looked around, transfixed by the expressions on the faces of the people in the room. Upscale professionals, mostly—the tickets were expensive, after all. The men elegantly dressed, the women in evening gowns and bright, shiny jewels.

An adult, sophisticated audience, and yet every face looked the same—transported to another place. A place of love and hope and loss and grief, where all those emotions were felt deeply, all at the same time. Unbearably moving, unspeakably beautiful, the carols everyone knew by heart, had heard in elevators and in malls and on TV and at drunken Christmas parties—each song took on a new meaning, as if being heard for the first time.

Christmas was joy and hope, a yearning for peace and goodwill. The old words took on a completely new and deeper meaning. Harry knew they’d never hear those songs again without thinking of tonight, a night when the most beautiful music in the world floated in the air.

And Eve herself—oh God, she just broke your heart up there. She looked like she’d been beamed down from another, better planet, in a shimmering green dress that matched her eyes, her auburn hair slicked back and swept up to showcase that long, pale neck and delicate jawline.

The makeup she never wore offstage painted her face with an old-fashioned glamour, mysteriously deep eyes, high cheekbones set off with the softest of blushes, that mouth…

Harry was sure there wasn’t a man here who wasn’t thinking about that mouth.

She was sex incarnate, but better sex than anyone had ever known, to a different beat. Her entire body was caught up in the jazzy rhythms, swaying gently, perfectly to the percussion. She carried every single nuance of every word, small gestures that somehow conveyed passion in peace, love in triumph.

The concert was coming to an end.

She finished “O Holy Night” and bowed her head at the applause, graceful as a queen accepting the homage of her adoring subjects.

Wait for it,
Harry thought. The last song, her signature song, the song she sang at the end of every concert, whatever the type of music.

It had become her trademark.

She sang it a cappella, because just her voice was enough.

“Amazing Grace.” It was their song, because she said it was only by amazing grace that she’d been able to find her way to him.

The song moved him, always. He’d heard her sing it hundreds of times, and it was always a dagger that pierced his heart, bloodless and painless and deep. The song made him feel keenly all the losses of his life. His mother, Crissy. Above all, Crissy.

He’d almost lost Ellen, and he thought of that, daily, hourly. It would be so easy to dwell on the losses, on the pain this life gave us all. To think of the darkness and sorrow, of loved ones gone forever, of the hatred and cruelty there was in the world.

All of that passed through his heart, every time. And every time he suffered.

And then every time, the song and Ellen’s voice reminded him of the incredible grace in the world and he was pulled forward, through the pain and suffering and into peace.